diymy Chapter 734 How Many Underhanded Tricks Did the British Use?
Chapter 734 How Many Underhanded Tricks Did the British Use?
February 8th, dusk.
Pershing stood on a high slope, watching the British soldiers lining up to board the vehicles in the distance.
Those were the last troops to evacuate. An entire brigade, more than three thousand men, marched in a long line toward the train station. Their uniforms were still relatively neat, and their equipment was complete, but each of them wore an expression that Pershing was very familiar with—the expression of a veteran, the expression of someone who had seen blood, killed, and survived.
A British officer stood by the roadside, talking to several American officers. He pointed to a map and said something, while the American officers listened attentively, nodding occasionally.
Pershing walked down the slope and headed in that direction.
Upon seeing him, the British officer immediately stood at attention and saluted: "General!"
Pershing nodded, looking at the few American officers: "What are you doing?"
A young lieutenant replied, "General, the British are handing over the positions to us. They've told us all the key defensive points and even drawn up a map."
Pershing looked at the British officer.
The British officer smiled, a smile that Pershing didn't quite like—was it condescending politeness, or something else?
"General, our soldiers have withdrawn, and the position is now in your hands. This place is very important; you must hold it."
Pan Xing looked at him and remained silent for three seconds.
"Where are you going?"
The British officer paused for a moment, then shook his head: "General, I don't know. I was just following orders."
Pershing nodded.
"Then execute the order."
The British officer saluted and turned to walk back to the ranks.
Pershing stood there, watching the British soldiers gradually disappear into the distance. They walked in a line, silently making their way to the train station. No one spoke, no one looked back, they just walked on, step by step.
Hubbard walked up to him and whispered, "General, this is the last batch. The British have all evacuated."
Pershing nodded.
"Has the defense been taken over over in Meilika?"
"They've taken over the defense. Eight divisions, 120,000 men, all of them have been deployed."
Pershing remained silent for a long time.
As he watched the British troops gradually disappear into the distance, he suddenly asked, "Hubbard, where do you think the British are going this time?"
Hubbard thought for a moment.
"Egypt, I suppose. Aren't they going to fight the Lanfang people?"
Pershing nodded.
"Egypt. Four hundred thousand men, to fight Zhao Dengyu's twelve thousand men."
He paused.
Who do you think will win?
Hubbard was stunned: "General, how—how did I know?"
Pan Xing turned around and looked at him.
"I don't know either. But I do know one thing."
"What?"
"No matter who wins, we are all losers."
Hubbard looked at him, puzzled.
Pershing pointed to the American soldiers training in the trenches in the distance.
"Look at them. They think they're here to save the world. They don't realize they're just pawns on a chessboard."
He turned and walked towards the command post.
After walking a few steps, he suddenly stopped and looked back at the sky that was gradually darkening.
"Hubbard, remember what I said today."
"What did you say?"
"From this day forward, the Mirka army will only trust the Mirka people."
As night fell, the French front fell silent.
Occasionally, cannon fire would be heard, but it would quickly disappear into the night.
The soldiers of Merika, wrapped in overcoats, huddled in the trenches; some smoked, some stared blankly, and some spoke in hushed tones.
A young soldier asked the veteran next to him, "Sergeant, are the British really gone?"
The old soldier smoked a cigarette, gazing at the dark night sky in the distance.
"I'm gone."
"So what do we do?"
The old soldier turned his head and looked at him. The moonlight shone on his weathered face, illuminating his cloudy eyes.
"What to do? Just wait to get beaten up."
The young soldier was stunned.
"Getting beaten up?"
The veteran exhaled a puff of smoke.
"Do you think the Germans are fools? They'll find out the British are gone sooner or later. Then the shells will fall, the bullets will fly, and people will die."
He patted the young soldier on the shoulder.
"Kid, remember this: on the battlefield, the only person you can rely on is yourself."
The young soldier nodded, seemingly understanding but not quite.
In the distance, the faint sound of a train whistle could be heard.
That was the sound of the British leaving.
It grew farther and farther away, fainter and fainter, until it finally disappeared completely into the night.
10 Downing Street, London.
Asquith stood by the window, gazing at the pitch-black night outside. In his hand lay a telegram just sent from Egypt: the first batch of 50,000 men had arrived in Alexandria and were assembling towards the canal.
Kitchener stood behind him and said softly, "Prime Minister, the last batch has been evacuated. 180,000 people, all on the ships."
Asquith nodded.
"What's the reaction from the French?"
Kitchener was silent for three seconds.
Clemenceau summoned Gray. They had a fight. But that was it.
Asquith turned and looked at him.
"That's it?"
Kitchener nodded: "Gray said the French themselves sent people to Dubai. They have no right to criticize us."
Asquith paused for a moment, then laughed.
That kind of laughter sent a chill down Kitchener's spine.
"The French? They're having an affair with Lanfang, and they have the nerve to criticize us?"
He walked back to his desk and sat down.
"Kitchina, what do you think Clemenceau is thinking right now?"
Kitchener thought for a moment.
"They should be thinking about why we betrayed him."
Asquith shook his head.
"No. He was thinking about how much longer he had to live."
He picked up the Egyptian telegram and read it again.
"Four hundred thousand men. Four hundred thousand battle-hardened veterans. Once Allenby takes the Sinai Peninsula and marches on Dubai, the French will know who the real boss is."
He put down the telegram and leaned back in his chair.
"Kitchina, go tell Allenby to speed things up. The faster the better."
Kitchener nodded and turned to leave.
After the door closed, Asquith sat there alone, looking out at the pitch-black night.
In the distance, the lights of London twinkled like countless eyes in the darkness.
Those eyes are the eyes of the dead.
Looking into those eyes, he suddenly felt very tired.
After three years of fighting and millions of deaths, they're now even turning against their allies.
When will this end?
he does not know.
But he knew he had to win this battle.
They won; Britain remains the British Empire.
We lost...
He didn't continue thinking about it.
The night outside the window grew deeper and deeper.
The night of February 8, 1918, passed just like that.
Tomorrow, a new day will begin.
New schemes, new betrayals, and new deaths will also come.
Dubai, February 9, 1918.
The sun rose over the Persian Gulf, bathing the entire city in a golden-red hue. The sea shimmered, as if sprinkled with shards of gold. In the distance, the minarets of the mosques stood out vividly in the morning light, and the long, drawn-out chanting of prayers emanated from the loudspeakers atop the minarets, calling the faithful to begin a new day.
But today, the Presidential Palace wakes up earlier than the mosque.